Thanks-very-much, Jeremy, for making me worry about time, I thought. I reminded myself that I was representing my mother here and I simply was not going to mess this up. So, when the driver scurried around to open the door for me, I valiantly plunked my high-heeled foot firmly on the pavement, and, although I wobbled a bit at first, I marched myself up the pretty, clean white steps of Great-Aunt Penelope’s town house.
An eager-beaver type of guy in his mid-twenties opened the front door as if awaiting my arrival. He was bright and alert, with obediently short hair, a well-cut suit that somehow made him seem even younger, and a perfectly educated accent. You would never mistake him for a doorman. He stepped aside to let me into the vestibule, where there was a door for the first-floor apartment, and to the right a staircase for the other two flats.
“Miss Nichols? I’m Rupert. I work with Jeremy.” His voice was low, as if we were in church. “Go right up to the library, second floor, please.” The staircase had a gleaming polished banister and wine-colored carpeting held with gold braces. The carpet didn’t keep the stairs from creaking a little as I stepped on them. I stopped at the small second-floor landing.
The door to Great-Aunt Penelope’s apartment was ajar, in a way that no living person would leave it unless she were just moving in or out.The inside hallway had a tulip-shaped lamp on a small table, which stood beside a sliding panelled door that was partially open. I hesitated, then slid the door farther open. It moved noiselessly in its tracks.
The library was a charming room, full of light from two sets of bay windows, each with its own window-seat. The furnishings were mostly turn-of-the-century pieces—the twentieth century, that is, Great-Aunt Penelope’s heyday. There were deep blue curtains at the windows, tied back with giant gold tassels. The opposite wall had built-in bookcases filled with gold, black, and dark green elegantly bound books protected by glass doors. All the furniture was small but pretty—a walnut roll-top desk and chair in a corner; a “swoon” sofa for delicate ladies prone to sudden fainting spells; and, by the tiny fireplace, two wing chairs with a low, round Queen Anne table.
But then, totally out of symmetry, was a cluster of chairs with high, ornately carved wooden backs and seats with maroon damask cushions. They looked as if they’d been dragged out of the dining room and awkwardly grouped in this semicircle at the center of the room. I figured that only lawyers would stomp in and do such a thing. And, indeed, there were three such likely candidates facing me right now—but none of them was Jeremy.
Dressed in dark suits and ties, immaculate white shirts, and enormous, expensive-looking cuff-links, they struck me as the sort of businessmen who always hunt in packs.The three of them were huddled protectively around a narrow cherrywood table with a glass top, where they shuffled some official-looking files and glanced up at me intently as I entered. They were silver-haired men with mistrust permanently etched onto their faces, and hard, marble-blue eyes that revealed no emotion, making them look like porcelain dolls, the kind that in horror movies invariably run amok and start killing the real humans. One of them flashed the quick, charming smile of an elderly crocodile.The other two simply returned to their papers, indicating that I’d failed to impress them. But I saw that they were excruciatingly conscious of my presence, which only confirmed my significance here. I felt a trifle uneasy.
Two more people entered the room—a petite, spidery old lady in an ash-blue coat and hat that matched, and a middle-aged guy in a navy blazer and beige flannel trousers. This simply had to be Mom’s cousin, Rollo Jr., and his mother, Great-Aunt Dorothy. I nodded to them, but they pretended that they didn’t notice. The lawyers sprang into deferential action, making an
An eager-beaver type of guy in his mid-twenties opened the front door as if awaiting my arrival. He was bright and alert, with obediently short hair, a well-cut suit that somehow made him seem even younger, and a perfectly educated accent. You would never mistake him for a doorman. He stepped aside to let me into the vestibule, where there was a door for the first-floor apartment, and to the right a staircase for the other two flats.
“Miss Nichols? I’m Rupert. I work with Jeremy.” His voice was low, as if we were in church. “Go right up to the library, second floor, please.” The staircase had a gleaming polished banister and wine-colored carpeting held with gold braces. The carpet didn’t keep the stairs from creaking a little as I stepped on them. I stopped at the small second-floor landing.
The door to Great-Aunt Penelope’s apartment was ajar, in a way that no living person would leave it unless she were just moving in or out.The inside hallway had a tulip-shaped lamp on a small table, which stood beside a sliding panelled door that was partially open. I hesitated, then slid the door farther open. It moved noiselessly in its tracks.
The library was a charming room, full of light from two sets of bay windows, each with its own window-seat. The furnishings were mostly turn-of-the-century pieces—the twentieth century, that is, Great-Aunt Penelope’s heyday. There were deep blue curtains at the windows, tied back with giant gold tassels. The opposite wall had built-in bookcases filled with gold, black, and dark green elegantly bound books protected by glass doors. All the furniture was small but pretty—a walnut roll-top desk and chair in a corner; a “swoon” sofa for delicate ladies prone to sudden fainting spells; and, by the tiny fireplace, two wing chairs with a low, round Queen Anne table.
But then, totally out of symmetry, was a cluster of chairs with high, ornately carved wooden backs and seats with maroon damask cushions. They looked as if they’d been dragged out of the dining room and awkwardly grouped in this semicircle at the center of the room. I figured that only lawyers would stomp in and do such a thing. And, indeed, there were three such likely candidates facing me right now—but none of them was Jeremy.
Dressed in dark suits and ties, immaculate white shirts, and enormous, expensive-looking cuff-links, they struck me as the sort of businessmen who always hunt in packs.The three of them were huddled protectively around a narrow cherrywood table with a glass top, where they shuffled some official-looking files and glanced up at me intently as I entered. They were silver-haired men with mistrust permanently etched onto their faces, and hard, marble-blue eyes that revealed no emotion, making them look like porcelain dolls, the kind that in horror movies invariably run amok and start killing the real humans. One of them flashed the quick, charming smile of an elderly crocodile.The other two simply returned to their papers, indicating that I’d failed to impress them. But I saw that they were excruciatingly conscious of my presence, which only confirmed my significance here. I felt a trifle uneasy.
Two more people entered the room—a petite, spidery old lady in an ash-blue coat and hat that matched, and a middle-aged guy in a navy blazer and beige flannel trousers. This simply had to be Mom’s cousin, Rollo Jr., and his mother, Great-Aunt Dorothy. I nodded to them, but they pretended that they didn’t notice. The lawyers sprang into deferential action, making an
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